


Another Ten Minutes

by Raletha



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Related, Drama, Hebephilia, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sexual Situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raletha/pseuds/Raletha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Treize is not enjoying his tour through the Colonies, at least not until he makes the acquaintance of Quatre Winner.  Circa 2004 & continued 2011.  Brief mention of past Treize/Zechs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't be too careful about the lines.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'ten' challenge on gw500
> 
> Extra Warning: this fic contains hebephilia, i.e., Treize is 23; Quatre 14.

I am an eagle with nowhere to soar here on L4, an eagle among songbirds here in Colonial space. They flit about their massive titanium cages content enough, but I am claustrophobic.

I am also a bored and growing hungry for both intellectual and visceral indulgences. I glance around the crowded ballroom for some worthy diversion among the twittering fowl of L4's upper crust. A string quartet whines and moans in flat incompetence somewhere beyond my vision. No one is dancing, just drinking and talking and flapping their stunted little wings.

Then I see him. He stands alone in the corner, fair and golden, resplendent in a black velvet dinner suit with a silver silk tie on a silver silk shirt. It's tailored sharply on his slim frame, in a style that echoes traditional Earth fashions, but nevertheless embodies the best of the inimitable and _avant-garde_ Colonial aesthetic.

He is the young, only son of my host (a deluded, fanatically naive man) and I see not the slightest trace of the father in the son. I smile and begin to wend my way toward Quatre. The boy can't be older than fourteen, with his delicate features and willowy build, but I see in his eyes the hard glaze of sophistication, and boredom has twisted his pretty mouth into a grimace of disenchanted distaste.

I change course to swoop past a waiter and pluck two tall flutes of champagne from his tray before I resume my approach of Quatre. He flicks imaginary lint from his lapel before turning his head and leveling a direct, measuring gaze at me. The suddenness of it takes me aback, and my steps slow minutely. He does not look away, nor does he speak as I come to stand beside him.

"You appear as inspired as I feel," I say. It is not my best overture, but I suspect Quatre would resent flattery. I expect he has heard it all from others, and I sympathise with him for it immediately. I spare a glance at my wristwatch as I extend one of the glasses toward him: twenty-four minutes past nine o'clock. Should things go poorly with Quatre, I may be able to leave without offense to my host within the half hour.

But I am rewarded. The sun comes out: his grimace gives way to a fleeting, amused smile, and I sense in it a flicker of greater magnetism. Unformed and untested is his charisma, but it is there, an integral and accidental gift of nature -- perhaps from the boy's anonymous mother.

"Then I pity you, Ambassador," Quatre answers. The violin squeals, and Quatre flinches -- a twitch of one cheek, the brief closing of his blue eyes, and a slight shake of his head. He accepts the glass, and cradles it idly, with the stem dangling between two fingers. I am surprised: I expected him to decline.

"Treize," I correct him while my gaze gluts on his features, enjoying the line of his cheekbones, his fine set jaw, and his supple lips. I sip my drink to quell the flutter in my belly.

"I know," he says, "Treize." He pronounces my name faultlessly, with no trace of a Colonial twang. The boy has had good tutors.

"Quatre," I reciprocate, forming the syllables as they too are meant to sound.

I am rewarded again -- a faint blush of pleasure dusts his complexion. "Thank you," he murmurs, glancing down at his glass. Now he lifts the drink and takes a tiny sip. I watch his lips part against the rim of the glass, his throat quiver as he swallows.

My desire to witness these events in a more personal context burns lower. Without averting my gaze from his face, I lazily indulge a vision of those lips parting against me, of being swallowed by that sweet mouth, milked by that pale throat.

Under my surveillance, I see his blush darken. His hand trembles as he lowers his glass, but his smile is not shy. I admit, it intrigues me more. When he raises his gaze to meet mine, I see rebellion, but I know I am not the object of it. I entertain the notion I may, in fact, be the goal.

That impels me to touch him, lightly below one shoulder blade, my fingers extended, spanning the space between his spine and the curve of his ribs. The velvet is dense and plush beneath my hand. "Is there any entertainment to be found here tonight?" I inquire, leaning closer, "The hired musicians play poorly, and your father's politics have left me in a profound ennui."

Quatre glances at my wrist, I follow his gaze to my watch, and peripherally I apprehend his satisfied smile. My watch reads thirty-four minutes past the hour.

"My chambers," he says _sotto voce_ , "are on the second floor in the central spinward wing -- the last two doors on the right." His words are all the more compelling for his lack of seductive intonation in imparting this bold information.

"They overlook a private rose garden," he continues. "I'm told it's very Earth-like. You may enjoy the view." He hands his full glass back to me, and speaks more demurely as our hands touch, "Excuse me, please."

I watch him gracefully navigate the crowd and exit to the hall. Another ten minutes, and I shall follow. It pleases me to know among all the sparrows and finches here, there dwells at least one raptor.


	2. So wise, don't lie

Ten minutes pass like an epoch, and I am bemused at how eager I am to continue in Quatre's company. His nascent charisma is a potent thing. I consider how he shall wield it in another decade, and my blood runs hot at what I imagine.

Soon I stand in the specified, darkened corridor before the last door. I have managed to elude both my bodyguard and my attaché. Perhaps Quatre is not the only one rebelling tonight. The thought stirs a rare and heady rush of adrenaline, for I am misbehaving, and it has been a while.

I unbutton my jacket before I rap a lively staccato on his door.

"Come in, Ambassador," I hear him say.

I enter his chamber and close the door softly behind me. Quatre stands silhouetted against a large, plate glass window, facing away from me, his fine hands clasped behind his back. Against the light-devouring velvet of his suit, his hair glows luminous in the manufactured moonlight. Gauzy drapes hang in elegant cascades on either side of the wide window. I wonder if he knows what a riveting scene he makes, framed thus. He may, for he does not turn.

"Please, lock the door," he instructs me, and I am content to comply. Still he does not move. It has a strange effect: both imposing distance and demonstrating trust.

Or possibly not trust, I amend, but power.

"So, tell me, Treize, what did you and my Father discuss this afternoon?"

A diversion so soon? I frown in disappointment, but answer truthfully, "I'm afraid I cannot divulge the substance of our meeting." I remove my jacket and lay it over the spidery back of an ornate Neo-Victorian chair. It is not a design movement I favour. "Did you invite me to your bedroom for conversation, Quatre?" I inquire, content also to permit him his power for now.

"Will the Alliance be gaining representation in the Colony Senate?"

"Perhaps." I move deeper into his chambers; the thick carpet muffles the heels of my boots, and I unknot my cravat. "Perhaps not," I reply, "but you did not answer my question."

He turns his head, sparing me a brief sidelong glance before retuning his attention without. "I didn't," he admits. Some amusement underlies his tone, and it affects me. I smile as I slip the silk from around my neck and let it flutter to the floor. Silence and inaction is my prompt.

It is a prompt that Quatre understands, for it is his reply as well. We stand, he at the window, I a few feet behind him, saying nothing, doing nothing, each waiting for the other to surrender to the quiet first. His advantage is that of territory, but he's allowed that advantage to diminish by inviting me into his personal space. Experience benefits me as well, and I am not surprised when his shoulders tense and he sighs softly.

"I don't understand why you want representation in our Senate. You could simply destroy it if you wished."

"I hope it doesn't come to that," I reply, allowing my words to come uncensored. My superiors would prefer Quatre's suggestion, but I do not desire destruction if the objective can be achieved through different means.

"If you don't destroy it, Ambassador, resentment against the Alliance will be able to fester. People will have the chance to plan for retaliation."

"Here?" I make a sharp, huffing exhalation through my nose. "I do not fear your Colony's brand of Pacifism, Quatre."

"You should not leave an enemy wounded, Ambassador. Even a peaceful one."

His words are not threatening, I don't think: they are bitter, and I would like to know why. However, I understand it is not a conversation I may have with Quatre. Not tonight. And yet, the very enigma of him, his strange contrasts -- his highlights and shadows -- draws me. Almost against my conscious will I find myself stepping closer to lay my hands upon his shoulders. They are as rigid as they appeared. I lower my voice. "Wounds can be tended. Enemies may become friends."

"Perhaps," he says flippantly and leans almost imperceptibly into my loose grip. "Perhaps not."

I squeeze, and velvet crushes beneath my hands as my fingers and thumbs dig into the tension of his neck and shoulders. Quatre's aloof façade crushes as easily. A small gasp slips from his lips, and he sways on his feet. The sound is a teasing preview; it winds itself into the arousal twisted in my belly.

Quickly he recovers himself, and straightens, but nevertheless relaxes into the massage.

"I believe I would have enjoyed conversations with you far more than the ones with your father these past few days," I muse aloud.

"I didn't think you were going to flatter me," Quatre rejoins, and it prompts a chuckle from me. Perceptive he is as well, unnaturally so.

"I am enjoying your company," I say, "but you still haven't answered my first question."

"No," he whispers and bows his head, "I haven't."

It's strangely coy of him who is so otherwise direct. I loosen my grip on the boy's shoulders. "Tell me what it is you want, Quatre. I came here for you."

"Did you?" he says, raising his head again and turning to glance at me over his shoulder. His tone is challenging but there is warmth there as well. I aim to coax more of that warmth from him.

"It would be untruthful for me to claim no self-interest in the matter, but yes, Quatre, I came here for you as much as for myself."

He doesn't respond but adopts a thoughtful air. I rub his shoulders lightly and bend my head near his, inhaling the scent of his hair. It is sweet like honeysuckle. I nuzzle the curls of hair behind his ear. It's soft and even more fragrant, and he shivers.

I find bare skin with my lips, and murmur my question again, "What do you want, Quatre?"

He makes an odd little noise in response and tenses again. But he does not protest. Perhaps he thinks it would be rude to do so, and his good manners forbid him.

"Do you wish to talk, or do you want something else from me?"

"I..." he starts, and beneath my lips I feel his throat bob as he swallows hard. "S-something else..." he sighs.

"Tell me. I do not wish to misunderstand your desires."

I do want him to tell me. He may be young and eager, but I do not wish for him to be led into activities not of his own choosing or without understanding what he is asking for. I will not take advantage of his age, I want him to come with me -- if he is to come -- with his eyes wide open.

"I want..." he whispers, and falters with a small whimpering hiccup.

"I will not lead your answers, young master. If you wish for something then tell me plainly, or else I shall leave your chambers."

"Treize," he says -- he pleads. In that soft, uncertain voice, it threatens to undo my resolve. The boy, for all his seeming sophistication must be a virgin, and I want to be the one to love him for the first time. He is worthy of an experienced lover, not some fumbling neophyte or drunken lout. The boy is so beautiful, but beneath his strength I sense a fragility that could too easily be mauled by an insensitive partner.

"I want, please..." he begins and clears his throat.

I wonder if he's ever used the language of sex aloud before, or if he's kept those powerful, magical words locked up in the silence of his mind. Perhaps he's whispered them to himself in the dark, but never loud enough for him to truly hear their hard edged consonants or lascivious vowels. Softly enough, he's whispered, so he can pretend they're merely an echo of the artificial wind in his garden.

His voice hardens when he realises that he must be candid with me. "I want to, for you to, please, be with me. Intimately."

Ah, not so candid after all.

"In intimate conversation, Quatre?" I tease lightly.

"No," he says firmly enough, but his voice softens again to a mere embarrassed whisper, "make love to me."

Ah, yes. That's much better, much closer to what I hoped for him to tell me. "You know I've wanted to since I first saw you tonight."

"Yes."

I move, leaning forward over his shoulder, and tilt his chin with my hand so I can kiss the corner of his mouth. He half turns in my embrace; our lips meet and fit together. I guide, but I let him lead. His mouth is tense against mine at first: uncertain. I soften my lips and move them in a soft murmur of encouragement, "Good, Quatre."

His lips curve against mine, and part with his smile. My tongue flicks out to trace the shape of his smile and he stiffens in my loose embrace. I lick lightly again, over his bottom lip and slip the tip of my tongue between his lips. His teeth are closed, so I glide over the enamel and retreat. When I pull back to evaluate his expression, he brings one hand to his mouth, touches his moistened lips. And then he grins.

"This is what you want?" I ask.

"Yes," he says, the fire of arousal bright in his eyes, and boldly pulls me in for another kiss. This time I hold his chin between my thumb and forefinger and coax him to open for me. I am thorough in exploring his mouth as I cradle his jaw in my hand. When he tries to wrest control of the kiss from me, I yield, and let him return the exploration, tentative and desperately erotic for it. But I hold myself in check, not wanting to frighten the boy.

One of his hands reaches up to find purchase on the front of my shirt. I encourage him by moving the hand at his jaw to touch his neck. With splayed fingers, I let my hand drift lower, over the throb of his heartbeat, over his collar, over his tie, and then under it to his buttons. I fumble the centre buttons free and pass my fingertips beneath the silk to touch the smooth heat of his skin. He shivers under my touch and pulls his mouth away from mine to breathe.

Panting, he holds my gaze wide-eyed, and I touch lower: his waistband, and below, lightly brushing the hard pulse of his young erection. He chokes on his breath and lets slip closed his eyes.

“Please,” he says, and then, as I press more firmly, he whisper-groans, “yes.”

I undo his fly. With my other hand I unfasten his belt, tug it free from his waist, and undo the button of his trousers.

“Treize,” Quatre whimpers. His utterance captivates me, twists into my mind, into my skin, more dizzying than any alcohol or drug I have consumed. I press my smile against his damp forehead.

When I slip one hand into his trousers and wrap my fingers about his silk covered shaft, his knees buckle and he staggers against me. His breath is hot and fast against my chest. I feel its humidity even through my shirt. His fingers pluck at my buttons uselessly.

I must take a moment, not only to allow Quatre to steady himself, but also for my own sanity. Quatre's innocence and eagerness threaten to beguile my intended self-restraint. My body is burning as hot as his. My desire is an ache, an exquisite agony of intention to sink into the sublime clasp of his virgin flesh, to have him pinned beneath me, sweating and writhing, moaning and mindless. All of it a revelation, not from God, but from me, and within that space of Quatre's revelation, I shall be -- for him -- divine.

He is the same age Zechs was. I have not fed this craving for years now. I had even forgotten the elation of indulging it. Such a rare thing, it must be done right.

I spy his bed in the adjacent room, through the half open French doors, washed silver in the faux moonlight. “Come,” I say, moving my hands to his shoulders. “Let us lie down.”


End file.
